


the engagements are booked through the end of the world

by fits_in_frames



Category: Lost
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-25
Updated: 2008-10-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:06:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They go below-deck after Jack gives his speech, and Penny asks him what he wants to do now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the engagements are booked through the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> _at the end of the tour_  
>  _when the road disappears_  
>  _if there's any more people around_  
>  _when the tour runs aground_  
>  _and if you're still around_  
>  _then we'll meet at the end of the tour_  
>  _the engagements are booked through the end of the world_  
>  _so we'll meet at the end of the tour_  
>  {they might be giants // the end of the tour}  
> 
> 
> Written for Porn Battle VI ([original comment](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/363932.html?thread=18583196#t18583196)). Spoilers through "There's No Place Like Home".

They go below-deck after Jack gives his speech, and Penny asks him what he wants to do now. Above all else, he says, he needs to take a shower. He smells like salt and grime and sweat and booze and sorrow and past and _island_ , and the thought of tainting her with that smell almost makes him sick. She pouts, sticks out her bottom lip a little, but he kisses her forehead. _And then,_ he murmurs against her skin, and she finishes the sentence for him. She usually does.

He showers in the stall in her cabin, and doesn't bother to wrap the towel around his waist when he's done. She's reading on the bed when he comes out, and she's naked. He doesn't think he's ever been more in love with anyone in his life than he is with her at this moment. He crawls across the bedspread, and she scolds him playfully, without looking up, for getting her quilt all wet. _I'll buy you a new one,_ he whispers in her ear, pushing her hair out of the way and pressing his lips to her temple. She finally looks over at him, smiles, and kisses him before he has a chance to smile back. The paperback novel she was reading is lost somewhere on the floor as she takes his jaw in her hands. They're kneeling on the bed, pressed up against each other, naked, wet, raw. He wraps his arms around her ribcage, gently, carefully, as if she'll break into a thousand pieces if he lets go.

She's trying to speak, but he cannot stop kissing her for even one second, and words get swallowed before they reach the tip of her tongue. She finally pulls away from him so she can get some air in her lungs that's not his, and instead of saying what she was so desperate to say a minute ago, she only grins, eyes sparkling, and kisses him, grabbing at his hair, tipping him over onto his back, straddling his hips with her knees, pinning his wrists to the mattress. After she's shown that in fact, she is not made of crystal, she sits up, and it's his turn to grin this time. He flips her over in a move he learned as a boy in the schoolyard, pins her down like he's just won the fight. Only instead of getting pulled away, he leans down of his own accord, and leads a trail of wet, nipping kisses down her cheek, to her jawbone, to her neck, to the bump of her collarbone. He traces the imperfections in her skin, thin red scars and faint brown spots, with his tongue, and when he gets to the space between her breasts, she squeezes her knees around his hips.

He's been over this moment in his mind a million times for the last three years--how there were going to be roses and candles and cinnamon incense burning in the next room. How he was going to go slow, gentle, a little at a time, until her nails dug into his flesh. How it would be perfect. And, well, there's no roses, no cinnamon, only one blaring incandescent light bulb, and before he knows it, before he can even catch his breath, he's inside her. She writhes her hips under his, tips her head back, bites her lip, splays her fingers out when his hips thrust forward.

 _God,_ she moans in the back of her throat, _Des. God._

He suddenly thinks that he's not so sure about God anymore, but now he's coming, a white-hot groan bubbling deep in his chest. And as her hips buck in rhythm with his, he decides God will just have to bloody wait.

*

They lay there for a long time, with only the ocean to move them. She's curled up against his chest, their legs are a tangled mess, and his nose is buried in her hair.

 _I thought,_ she says as she runs a finger along his collarbone, _that we could get married in Fiji._ Then, when he doesn't answer, _We'll be there in a few days._

 _In a hurry, Pen?_ he teases.

 _Don't want to lose you again,_ she says, plainly.

He runs his thumb up and down her arm, feeling the smooth coolness of her skin against the warm roughness of his. _Not goin' anywhere,_ he says.

She sighs, presses her head into him like a cat. He'll say yes if she asks again tomorrow, but tonight, he doesn't want to think about it.

 _You all right, love?_ she asks after a moment.

 _Aye,_ he says. _You?_

 _Yeah._ She snuggles back into his chest, curling her hand up on his stomach. _I'm perfect._

And for the third time in as many years, he can't help but smile.


End file.
